


it's almost insulting.

by beckhams



Series: football. — ideas. [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckhams/pseuds/beckhams
Summary: he's glowing, shining and he's glittering, with blonde hair and bruises and earrings and he's an angel. it's almost insulting, how can someone make you feel like this?
Relationships: David Beckham/Gary Neville
Series: football. — ideas. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733986
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	it's almost insulting.

**Author's Note:**

> guess who put all their stories on orphan?? me. so all my old stories are still there, just it doesn't have my name anymore and I don't know how it happened but I'm not really bothered

_it's almost insulting,_ you reason to yourself. _it's almost insulting._

its insulting how he's pretty, with bright blonde hair, and shiny eyes, with hands so skinny and elegant, with legs so slim and long, with a smile so bright it hurts you to look at him, with skin so pale and so easy to bruise, with scars that have gone white and bruises that have gone dark purple and yellow.

he's got earrings and sometimes you want to rip them out of his ears, tell him it's not time to be showing off and it's too girly, but then the sunlight hits him just right, and his blonde hair glows and the earrings sparkle and he looks like an angel. he's an angel because your sixteen and he's the prettiest thing you've ever seen. it's insulting, how can someone look like that? 

It's insulting how he talks, with light noises and breathy words, almost like he moans everything he says, with a high voice and a vocabulary made for being friendly. he doesn't even know how to speak properly, too silly and fumbly with words, all high pitched and pretty and soft, with an accent where he skips letters and vowels completely and you know its horrible for those who don't speak english as a first language, he's too hard to understand, but for you, it's perfect. it's insulting, how can someone sound like that?

•

he's the best player you've ever seen, it hurts you to look at him, to watch him train. sometimes, you just sit there, watching his slim legs work. you normally stay with him after practice, when every one has gone home and its so quiet you can hear his breaths, and you want to reach out, wrap your hand around his delicate wrist but you stand there, watching him repeatedly kick a ball into the net, over and over and over and over. it's so effortless, so perfect that your chest hurts and you want to beat him senseless, but then, he smiles over at you and his bruises look darker than you remember and his hands are balled up in his jumper sleeves. so, you tug off the gloves you're wearing and toss them to him.

"thanks." he says. 

you nod, pretending like you don't care, you feel warm all over and he's smiling at you and curling his elegant fingers into your gloves and all you can do it watch. all you can do is stand there, watching him become better and better. he's wearing gloves with your name embroidered on them.

_neville, neville, neville._ it's like he's chanting your name at you, like he's screaming at you, but he's not. he's kicking a ball into net at nine pm on a tuesday, and your standing there, taking everything in.

_beckham, beckham, beckham_. you want to chant back. you don't. you just hand him a water bottle and pretend not to be looking at his lips when he chugs it down.

•

you're waiting for him, standing outside of the training ground, hands stuffed into your trouser pockets. you all had decided to go grab something to eat after a particularly hard training but david had to quickly nip in to talk to a coach.

so, you all sit and stand there, waiting for the blonde boy. you all pretend like it's annoying, like you all wouldn't wait for years for him. 

when he comes out, he's wearing an oversized coat, he must have gotten it off one of the managers who always fall into his traps. you've watched him tease, with batting eyelashes and pretty smiles and you must have fallen for it as well, but it gets him what he wants. 

you almost want to reach out and touch the jacket, see if you can smell the desperation on it from the manager that gave it to david, to see if you can smell how desperate the manager was to fuck him, but its a disgusting thought that you push to the back of your head. 

he's wearing shorts, he's always wearing shorts, even if he's freezing and you don't understand it because he always complains, but it's not your problem. his bruises are a pale purple and you want to push your fingers down on them to see if he'd squirm, and he wouldn't, because he's not a fucking pussy. 

he walks beside you when you all head to town, the only good chipper is only a few minutes walk from the training, and you pretend like you care about the calories but none of you do because your metabolism has never been better.

he smiles at you and you smile back.

"want to share?" he asks, and you nod. you seem to be nodding a lot lately but when it comes to him, you never know what to say.

when you all find a table to fit the six of you, he's pressed next to you, the chairs ridiculously close together but neither of you move. phil and scholes are opposite you and they've moved their chairs to be more spaced out but not you and david. giggs and nicky are sitting on the ends of the table with smirks and bickering and it feels good, it feels _right._

his hand is tracing patterns on your thigh, the fabric of your trousers being the only thing keeping the chill of his fingers from touching your skin. you want to hold his hand, it's not a scary thought. you brush it off as a ' _I haven't been laid in a while and becks is a pretty lad with nice hands'_. so, you let him absent-mindedly sketch details into your skin, let his fingers leave a chill.

he let's you have most of the chips, simply because they costed £3 and he only paid £1. you like that about him, how he let's you get your way because he know you will put up a fight if you don't. so, you let him get his way, you let him cling onto you.

and when you finally link your fingers together, you definitely don't look at him, you definitely don't. your hands rest on your thigh, tangled together and if any of the others notice, they don't say anything.

•

you share a flat together. it's close to the training grounds, the bosses are paying for it, all the younger players have a place to live and you asked to be put with david. you hope he asked to be put with you, but maybe he didn't, and you never ask him about it. 

you go to bed early, he's always up late. sometimes you pretend to go to bed and just sit there, in your room, listening to him pacing up and down the corridor and listen to him muttering to himself. 

you want to reach out and ask him what's wrong but you never do. 

you watch movies together, whatever you can get your hands onto. sometimes you all watch them as a group, the six of you, but sometimes you have a night in and stay with david, in your flat and watch it together. it's much quieter when it's just you two, without phil and giggs constantly talking and without nicky constantly asking if anyone wants anything, and especially without david whispering with scholes and you aren't at all jealous about it. 

you two curl up on the sofa, and you definitely don't watch him from the corner of your eye. he's all glowy, the light of the television lighting him up, making him shine in the darkness and he looks like an angel. you reach out and tether your hands together and he doesn't stop you, only moves closer and tosses his legs up so they rest on your lap. 

by the end of the movie, the credits rolling, he's asleep, head resting on your shoulder, hand intertwined with yours, legs on your lap and his other hand gripping so tightly onto your shirt. you should wake him up and tell him to go his room, but you just press a kiss to his hair and try get comfortable. 

he hands you a piece of toast in the mornings and it's burnt and there's no butter but you eat it anyways, he's got the other slice and he's not complaining or scrapping off the black bits so you swallow it down and get a cup of coffee, handing him his tea. it's all too casual for you, all too much but you never complain and he doesn't either. 

you line your shoes up by the door, and the football boots go in the closet that keeps the broom and heating set up, and the two stacks of boots is growing. his jacket is hung up on the left peg, yours on the right and its all to casual. 

you never tell him about the night he fell asleep on your shoulder, you have a feeling he already knows. 

•

he's after falling down. he had gotten pushed by one of the older lads on the team who still aren't used to the fact that a young, pretty face is on the team, so they torment him. he lands on some broken glass bottles and it cuts deep. 

he just stands back up, brushes down the bits of stone that have stuck to his knees and the pebbles lodged in his hands and he picks out the bigger pieces of glass. he keeps walking and he doesn't look back at the older squad members. _it doesn't mean anything,_ just some light teasing.

but when you get home, you can see the bullets of blood that spill down his porcelain legs. you run a bath and he takes a quick nap on the sofa, careful to not get blood anywhere.

and when you wake him and sit him down on the toilet next to the full-up bath, he let's you pull off his boots and socks and he let's you tug off his jacket and jersey until he's only left in his shorts but you don't want to cross that territory unless he let's you. so, you skirt your hands around the waist band and when he nods you pull them down, tugging as gently as you can and carefully getting them over the scrapes of his knees. the blood is a thick red that trickles down his legs and its almost alarming how much there is but david isn't freaking out so you try not to.

you sit on the toilet while he rubs off the blood and the stones and he hisses and moans and groans and it hurts to hear him like that but he has to do it, it would get infected if he didn't clean the cuts. 

you take the wash cloth from him and kneel by the bath, bringing his knee to your hand.

"I can stop if it hurts. if you do it, you keep going if I don't tell you it hurts." david explains, and you nod. it makes sense but you don't want to hurt him, but you won't know if you have if he doesn't tell you.

so, you scrub and scrub at his knees until the old blood is washed off and is replaced by new blood, the bath water has swirls of red in it and little reds from the drips.

his hands are wet and they leave damp spots on your jersey where he gripped onto you so hard you were sure he was going to take a piece with him.

you help him out and leave the room while he puts on some boxers and an oversized shirt that you swear you saw a coach wear earlier this week, but maybe you were wrong or maybe it was just the same shirt.

you tug at his hand until he's sitting on your bed, and you grab some disinfectant wipes and again, he hisses and groans at it, curling his fingers in your shirt but you don't stop because he hasn't told you to.

when you finally get his knees bandaged up, he's quiet and calm and you wash your hands of his blood and you sit down next to him. he's laying down across your bed, with his feet dangling off the edge and you sit next to him, looping your hand in his, hoping you are offering some sense of comfort.

•

you are drunk, it's a little embarrassing that you're so much further gone than the others but it's only the six of you in your flat so you don't mind. 

when the others leave, david halls you up and sets you down on the bed. he goes off for a few minutes before coming back with a glass of water and some painkillers that are for the morning. he sets them down on the night stand. 

you notice that he changed the dressing on his knees, probably got a physio at training to check it out. you laugh at yourself and he smiles sweetly at you. 

he's undressed you enough for you to be comfortable, never crossing a barrier you never noticed you put up. he peels off his training clothes and slides under the covers, next to you. 

you curl an arm around his waist and he doesn't push you off. he never does anymore. 

•

he wears a skirt, as a joke, for some banter but you don't find it funny, it confuses you, but you laugh anyways, you play up to the joke and you go along with it because it would be weird if you didn't. 

his— _her? his._ — his skirt is a short black skirt that has little folds, its on the shorter side of skirts you are used to seeing, it ends just above his mid thigh, and his shirt is a black long sleeved t-shirt tucked in. 

one of the lads' girlfriends did his makeup. it looks nice, with mascara and lipstick and glittering eyeshadow. 

you're a lot more confused than you thought you'd be. 

he lost a dare with someone, you didn't hear who and honestly you don't care. 

when everyone leaves your flat, which is quickly becoming the go to place to hang out, you two are sitting in the kitchen, nibbling at chips and he's sitting up on the counter, his legs crossed over, and his skirt is riding up a little, but you don't dare touch him, it would be wrong. 

he presses a kiss to your cheek before bed, and you don't wash it off for an embarrassing amount of time, letting his lipstick print stay on your skin. 

you are so much more confused than you ever thought you'd be. 

•

he's still the best in training, kicking footballs and running around and it makes you sick to look at him. you'll never be at that standard but will anyone? you think he's the best you've ever seen but you never say it, you'd get laughed at and becks would just smile that shy smile of his.

you're staying extra, as always, and he flops down on the pitch, pulling his bruised legs up and letting his arms fall out carelessly. he turns to you and smiles, he smiles that _david beckham_ smile that always gets you.

becks taps the grass beside him with his hand, curling his arm to be resting by his side, motioning for you to lay next to him. you take his offer and fumble your way next to him.

you lay together for hours and your arms are linked together, fingers knotted.

"gary?"

"yeah, becks?" you're both whispering and you don't know why, it's not like anyone else can hear you, there isn't anyone else there.

"I love you."

your heart skips a beat and then it goes again like a sledge hammer. you know he doesn't mean it like how you want him to mean it, you know he's only meaning it in a platonic way, but you say it back.

"I love you, too." and you don't mean it like he does, just like how he doesn't mean it like you do.

•

you're first kiss with him isn't how you thought it would be. you actually never thought it would happen, but there he is, pressing his lips to yours and you are doing it back. 

he tastes like peppermint and a little bit of vanilla from the icecream he took a bite of at half-time. and his hair is falling on his forehead, brushing against your's. it's perfect. 

and thousands of fans are screaming their lungs out, so he pulls you by the hand, taking you out of the tunnel and you are almost blinded by the lights. 

and he smiles, that shy smile and its like you're back at the training ground watching him kick a ball around, and he's looking like an angel because he might as well be. you smile back. 

"we're winners!" he has to yell it over the roaring of the fans. 

you yell back, "we fucking won!" 

he's glowing, shining and he's glittering, with blonde hair and bruises and earrings and he's an angel. _it's almost insulting, how can someone make you feel like this?_


End file.
